They grappled, crashed to the ground, flailed and threshed about, both stabbing and slashing.
Farrell’s last leap carried him home. His half-blade slashed as they rolled into the shrubbery. Spurting blood drenched him. The ragged steel ripped flesh. But as he struggled to his feet, a man in Chinese brocade came ploughing through the underbrush. He caught Farrell off balance. His knife flashed down. Though Farrell writhed clear, his arm was wrenched and numb. He drove up with his knee, but missed—
And then a muffled pistol blast sent a backlash of blinding flame across his face. The enemy collapsed, the top of his head blasted away.
Farrell kicked clear. He saw the wounded sultan, smoking pistol still in hand, struggle to his feet. Hamid’s ally was Wang Ho, sent to check up on the conspirator.
“This has been an instructive moment,” said Sultan Iskander, eyeing Hamid’s Mongolian ally.
The sultan’s jacket was slashed and red, but he kept his feet. And then an officer, followed by a squad of askaris, came charging from camp.
“They came to take your head and toss it into camp to demoralize your men,” explained Farrell. “Wang Ho followed Hamid to be sure of his good faith.
“They expect him to return. And I’m taking his place. Surprise is our only chance. You can’t get the artillery into action in time. I’ll put on Wang Ho’s coat. That will fool the sentry. Once a few of us get in, the rest can charge up the slope, the quick way.”
He dashed to the beach. His heart pounded like a riveting hammer. Tsang Wu having arranged for a counter attack against the murdered sultan’s camp, would seek Irma to celebrate in anticipation.
As he scaled the ragged cliff, he heard the singsong chatter of the exultant pirates. And then, as he reached the crest, a woman cried out from the northern casemate. It was clear through the gun port, and the confusion of voices in the courtyard did not drown that scream.
Irma’s voice. Tsang Wu’s savage laugh. A curse, a slap. Her nails were raking deep, but her agonized gasp all too plainly marked the end of her resistance…
Farrell’s blood froze—but he did not dare to hurry. He popped out into the open moonlight. His face was shadowed, and he wore Wang Ho’s brocaded silks.
“Quick, pig!” he growled in Cantonese, mimicking the Manchu’s curt voice. “Where’s the chief? Tell him—”
The startled sentry, listening to the sounds that made him envy Tsang Wu, whirled as that commanding voice broke in. A short flash of steel blotted out his second-hand thrills.
Farrell snatched the sentry’s rifle. And as his handful of Malays cleared the narrow, unguarded gate, he bounded into the court.
A swift glance. A cluster of pirates squatted in front of Tsang Wu’s empty quarters.
Farrell’s rifle, suddenly jerked to his hip, poured fire and lead into them as they clambered to their feet, off balance and without a chance to act.
A ripping volley from his right and left seconded his surprise attack. The Malays mowed them down, but reinforcements came from the further end of the court. Yet for a moment Farrell and his handful had the advantage. Hot lead and cold krisses swept the enemy back in confusion.
He could no longer hear the voice from the casemate. They were pocketed now, and the angle of the wall became a red nightmare.
Tsang Wu was not leading the counter-attack…
Three of Farrell’s men were down, bullet-riddled and slashed, but they still crawled on, stabbing upward with their red blades, as though hoping to drown in enemy blood before they died of their wounds.
And then a familiar voice rang above the mad confusion: Sultan Iskander. Farrell caught a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye as he discarded his rifle and snatched a curved sword.
A wrathful howl, a savage ripple of musketry, and the Malays charged.
Farrell pressed on, and as the battle surged past the entrance of the passageway, he bounded toward the casemate.
What he saw confirmed the outcry he had heard. Irma, still shackled by one ankle, lay sprawled on the floor. She stirred feebly. One arm was still bent in a repulsing gesture. Only a few shreds of her gown were left. Tsang Wu concealed most of her bare body. His head was a gory pulp, and his blood spattered Inna’s drawn face and her breasts. Near him lay the block of stone that had crushed the back of his head.
Farrell had arrived too late even for vengeance. Something silken crouched in a corner. A woman—
“Chan Li! What the devil—!”
She recognized his voice, and explained, “I tried to use my knife, but he knocked me against the wall. And later, I picked up that rock.”
Farrell dragged Tsang Wu aside. Irma stirred feebly, cried out, then recognized him.
“God…” Her voice was low and trembling. “Why didn’t you stay away altogether?…you’re lucky…they didn’t get around to your yellow sweetheart—”
She was hysterical, but Farrell’s nerves were wire-edged.
“Listen, damn it!” he snapped. “I went back to save a Malay who took me from the beach when you and the white colony threw rocks at me.
“And what’s happened tonight’d be nothing to what would have happened if Chan Li hadn’t showed me the way to slip in here. Your having kept that picture all these months sort of made me hope I might stage a comeback—”
Her defiance cracked.
“I’m sorry, Glenn…” She questioningly eyed him through her tears, saw the grimness leave his face. Then her glance shifted to Chan Li. “Do you really care for her—”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Chan Li. “He was betrayed and beaten. I had my hour and I helped him. Send me to Penang, and we will forget this, the three of us. He was mad enough to try to release you single-handed. I knew from the beginning that I couldn’t have him.”
Farrell and Irma eyed each other. Then he said, “It’d been a lot worse if you’d been killed, darling. You and I both have a lot to forget. So we can start out even.”
TREASURE FROM KURDISTAN
Originally published in Spicy-Adventure Stories, August 1936, under the title “No Questions Asked” under the pseudonym “Ralph Carle.”
Bagdad was in evening dress. The squish of bare feet sinking ankle-deep in the rubbish-laden street competed with the racking cough of a hasheesh smoker, and the high-pitched cursing of a native woman, getting very much the best of an argument.
A drum muttered, and the whimper of a lute invited passersby into Abou Kassim’s café. A girl tapped on the shutters and whispered the Arabic equivalent of, “Show you a good time, Baby…”
Some accepted, but the tallest of the turbaned specters sifting through the gloom stalked straight on, though he grinned and answered, “Not a chance, little one!”
He was lean and rangy, with a face the color of a cordovan boot. He called himself Shir Khan, and prayed five times a day—which was more than he did when at home, and wearing his own name.
Glenn Farrell was on the prowl again.
As usual, he was broke, but the collector who had sent him to Bagdad had everything but the nerve to track down the fabulous prayer rug, woven five centuries ago for Khalil Sultan, Tamerlane’s drunken grandson. It was a sea-green witchery of silk and threads of gold, with pious texts embroidered in pearls.
A month in the native quarter of Bagdad verified the rumor. It was all over but the payoff, and to hell with girls tapping at shutters! Later—well, that was something else…
A block past the Merdjan Mosque Farrell knocked at a barred door. A tall negro led him from the high odors of the street into a storeroom heaped to the ceiling with baled Persian carpets.
A white-bearded man with sharp eyes and a beak of a nose saluted him. They seated themselves on an upholstered bench in an alcove. The old man clapped his hands and whispered an order to the negro. He left, and presently reappeared with Khalil Sultan’s fabulous rug. There w
as no doubting its authenticity; yet to remain in character, Farrell continued his haggling.
“Twenty-five hundred pounds, Inglesi, and my blessing,” demanded old Abbas. “Were I not sorely in debt, I would not sell at any price.”
“Two thousand, and may Allah reward the generous!” pleaded Farrell. “I am poor, and I buy only to keep it in the family.”
“In the family?” echoed the Arab.
“Ay wallah!” swore Farrell. “The grandfather of my great grandfather took this at the looting of Kabul. Some thief stole it from my father, may Allah be pleased with him!”
The bargaining was finally interrupted by the negro.
“Nurredin Shirkuh,” he announced; and then the visitor, stalking in at the negro’s heels, spoke for himself: “Ay wallah! Nurredin Shirkuh, a Kurd from Kurdistan.”
He was tall, rawboned; a mountaineer richly dressed, and bristling with weapons. His eyes, like Farrell’s, were the color of frost-bitten steel. Whether he was a prince or a bandit, Farrell could not guess. But he knew that Nurredin was one to be reckoned with.
“That rug,” continued the Kurd. “I heard you offer it for twenty-five hundred pounds!”
“I should have said three thousand,” countered the old Arab. “It belonged to the grandson of Tamerlane.”
“My illustrious ancestor,” Shirkuh modestly admitted. “For his sake, I will pay what you ask.”
Farrell leaped to his feet.
“Ya Abbas,” he sternly demanded, “what fraud is this? A confederate to raise the price?”
Shirkuh’s retort was a heavy wallet that tinkled as it dropped to the floor.
“Count it,” challenged the Kurd.
Trick or not, Farrell had to work fast. He thrust a sheaf of bank of England notes at the Arab merchant.
“Here is as much as he has offered. I have a first claim. Hold it until I come back with as much again. They say you are honest. You cannot deny me this right.”
“Thou hast spoken,” assented the Arab, ignoring Shirkuh’s wrathful protests. “One full day to raise the money, and may Allah prosper thee.”
Shirkuh’s hand slipped to his arsenal. For a moment their glances crossed; then Farrell deliberately turned his back and stalked toward the door.
“Something,” he pondered as he strode down the narrow street, “is screwy. Old Abbas is honest according to his lights. But if it isn’t a set-up, what in hell is it anyhow?”
Half an hour later, at the Alwayeh Club, Farrell presented his credentials to a man who could raise five hundred pounds sterling at any hour of the day or night.
“Good luck, Farrell,” said the official as he handed him a packet of bank notes, “but be careful. The way this Kurdish chap popped up is a bit off color.”
“It is,” admitted Farrell. “But old Abbas is on the level.”
“No doubt,” answered the other. “I wasn’t thinking of him. You’d better take an escort,” Farrell shook his head. “Once old Abbas suspected that a European was on the trail, he would deny he ever heard of such a rug.”
He turned back to the native city; but as he approached the mosque, a pair of heavily-laden camels blocked his way. Farrell turned left down a narrow alley. Too late, he realized that was a mistake, and that an escort would have come in handy.
A fisherman’s net, flung from between two buildings, settled down about his shoulders. As he sought to disentangle himself, half a dozen dark figures bounded from a doorway, belaboring him with clubs as they bore him to the earth. Farrell drew his heavy bladed jambia and thrust upward into the pack.
There was a howl, a scrambling and a threshing of arms and legs.
As the pack shifted, Farrell slashed the slimy net. Though still entangled, he gained freedom for one arm. His fist shot forward, driving the heavy pommel of his knife smashing full into an acre of ivory. A kick in the stomach doubled him, but did not check his resistance.
Farrell shook two active assailants from his shoulders; before he could get clear, they discarded their clubs, and dragged him into the side alley. A lucky kick drove one of his captors smashing against a wall. Farrell, still clutching his knife, slashed out—
But it was not his blade that broke the riot. A woman screamed. Pottery spattered to fragments and a flood of scalding water drenched the top layer of the writhing tangle. They scattered. Farrell plunged toward the door that had opened at the right. But as he crossed the threshold, the lady shrieked, “Out of my house, O father of a pig! Out—”
She meant out. Farrell stumbled, still trying to dodge the earthenware pot. It caught him a glancing blow, flattening him to the floor. Only his compact turban saved his skull. His wits went out in a red haze; but his assailants, having their fill of hot water, were dashing down the alley. And they had the police to reckon with.
* * * *
Farrell, as he came out of the fog, sensed that he was not a prisoner. The stench of the side street still clung to his clothing; but the mud had been wiped from his face. He was in a small, clean room of a native house, stretched out on a bench that paralleled the mud wall. A young woman was kneeling beside him.
“I thought you were one of them,” she explained. “I didn’t realize my mistake until you dropped.”
“Say no more about that,” Farrell grinned.
He hastily felt for his wallet. It was intact. Then he found time to appraise his hostess.
Her dress was striking—what there was of it! Her blue-black hair was heavily laden with gold coins linked together. Beneath her brown woolen cloak she was quite bare, except for the hammered silver disks that cupped her breasts, and the broad girdle of silver and turquoise gleaming against her walnut-colored skin. She was an entertainer of one of the native cafes. That explained her costume, but did not account for her failure to go through Farrell’s wallet.
The girl, sensing his unspoken query, began, “I am Zobeide. Just like the great Khalif’s wife.” She reeked with attar of roses, and her eyelids were heavily blackened. She was plump, full-breasted, but shapely. A substantial armful of a girl.
“What’s the idea, Zobeide. Taking an evening off?”
“No. There was a quarrel with the son of the proprietor, Allah curse his grandfather! So I brained him with a narghilah. When I heard the riot at my door, I thought he had sent some of his bouncers to take me to the police.”
He drew a new bank of England note from his wallet and slipped it into her hands, then stepped toward the door; but Zobeide caught his arm.
“Don’t go!” she implored, fairly dragging him back.
“I won’t be gone long,” he said, smiling grimly. “I’ve got a bit of business to attend to…”
“Then let me go along,” she begged, “if that brother of a dog doesn’t have me arrested, he will dump me in the river.”
Zobeide was alarmed, and her persuasion was as vigorous as her hurling of pots. She fairly overwhelmed Farrell with her strong, supple arms, and a stifling gust of attar of roses.
After all, old Abbas had given him a twenty-four hour option. Farrell, moreover, was still groggy, and Zobeide’s vigorous embrace offered several reasons for humoring her whim. He couldn’t see her legs, at the moment, but she was supple as a serpent, and made the most of her talent for clinging tight…
“Maybe there’s something in your idea, after all,” gasped Farrell, finally getting his mouth dear of her sultry lips, “but we’d get along better if you took off some of that jewelry!”
Zobeide’s silver brassiere was gouging into Farrell’s knife-creased chest; and he was wondering whether she really needed any such adornments.
As he seated himself beside her on the upholstered mastaba, Zobeide admitted that they weren’t appropriate except at the cafe…
For a badly battered rug collector, Farrell did well enough by the girl who had been named after Haroun el Rashid’s fav
orite wife… In fact, about all the original Zobeide could show her would be a face perhaps a trifle more aristocratic…
The rising moon was gilding this domes of the great Kadamain Mosque when Farrell and Zobeide declared a truce.
“Something tells me that I’d better see Abbas right now,” Farrell decided. “And don’t sap me when I come back.”
“I’ll go with you, so you can protect me against that father of many pigs.”
She fumbled beneath the upholstery of the mastaba, and produced a Webley automatic which she thrust into his hand, explaining, “I stole this from a soldier the other night. It may come handy.”
* * * *
Old Abbas received Farrell in his reception room. His face was grim and his eyes were bleak. He declined the packet of bills that Farrell offered him.
“Nurredin Shirkuh’s servants saw you receive this money from the infidel officials, and heard him greet you as one of them. So I would not favor you against a True Believer. He has the rug.”
And that finished Farrell’s case.
“So that explains my being waylaid! Your pious friend tried to rob me. Allah blacken him!”
Old Abbas made no personal issue of Farrell’s having impersonated a true believer.
“Wallah, sahib,” he admitted, “it was not right to have you waylaid.”
He reached into a cabinet for the deposit Farrell had left with him.
“This is yours. Perhaps if you seek Nurredin in his native town, you might bargain with him.”
“Is he really descended from Khalil Sultan?” wondered Farrell.
“He must be, or he would not be fool enough to want that ragged rug,” answered Abbas. “Only pride of race could make him so extravagant.”
Nurredin Shirkuh, knowing that his men had attacked an infidel, would hastily leave Bagdad; but on such a long pursuit, a fresh start, rather than a quick one would be best for Farrell.
E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates Page 49
